


Hunted

by featherling



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Avvar Cullen, F/M, Forgotten Ones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:12:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherling/pseuds/featherling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two years of hiding her budding magic, Wren Levallen is cast out of her clan as her Keeper cannot have more than two apprentices, and no other clans will accept her. The Augur of a nearby Avvar hold is instructed by gods to find her, and sends two Avvar brothers with Lowlander Templar training to fetch her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunted

**Author's Note:**

> I liked the idea of an Avvar Cullen, but wanted to focus on my elfquisitor that hates the dalish pantheon too. I don't have a beta reader so this is going to be gross and messy.  
> There's references to anxiety disorder. I have no idea if this is going to be a sexy fic but it's definitely going to be a slow burn.

 “You know what we must tell you.” The Keeper had said. She stood tall and proud in the cabin's doorway, her shawl had been wrapped around her. Wren could hear the slight, gentle tremor of fear in her voice.

“Yes.” Wren's own voice was hoarse and tired. She had not lifted her head as she looked up at her Keeper.

“Perhaps another clan will accept you. But none that we have contacted.”

“Perhaps.”

“After what happened we can't-”  
“I know, hahren.” Wren was tired. Weary.

 

She was still tired and weary. A fortnight in the Frostbacks and yet she still lived. Her bow shot true and her flint always lit a fire to warm her. South she continued, not knowing what she sought as she traveled alone, all her possessions on her back. She had not spoken to a soul in all that time, but she dwelled on the past, remembering all that she had left with clan Levallen. Her Keeper, who had raised her. Fallon and Dirthrell whom she had hunted with.

Whenever she awoke, it was always as she clawed at her face. New scratches and blood in her fingernails. She hated the vallaslin that stained her face, reminded her of the gods that turned their back on her.

 

“Da'len, why do you do this?” Over a year ago Keeper Deshanna pulled Wren's hands from her face where they held a wet cloth stained with blood.

“I don't know. I can't stop.” Wren had been crying, the long line where she had peeled off Mythal's marks stung and screamed with pain.

“You chose Mythal to be your guide, why do you wish to be rid of what makes you an adult?”

“I don't know hahren! I can't stop myself in my sleep! My dreams-”

“Dreams?” The Keeper's face changed from compassionate to serious as she dipped the cloth in the salty water.

“Dreams where the gods mock me. They leave me behind in the dark. Dreams where they are just people. Voices tell me to take a storm and throw it at them.”

“Da'len . . .” Deshanna had cupped Wren's chin gently, turning her face to look into her eyes. “How long have you had these dreams?”

 

Wren cursed under her breath. The first words she had spoken in weeks. Above her rain spattered against the waxed canvas that served as an open tent. She tried hitting steel to flint again, and again her tinder sparked, but died before it could dry the damp wood for a fire.

The rain had a slush-like quality, and brought a bitter cold that bit into any flesh not covered by her parka. She cursed again. She cursed Andruil and Sylaise, should they not be watching over her? She cursed Mythal and her “protection”. She cursed June and begged for the Dread Wolf to take her own soul away. Hugging herself, she stared off into nothing, then screamed when she realized she had began to scratch at her face without realizing it. She hated knowing that Mythal's branches still marked her, even knowing her face was pock-marked with scars and scabs.

She pressed her hands together, like a human in prayer, and rubbed them to create warmth.

 

Dirthrell had grabbed her arm and turned her around, “Wren, we must talk.”

She glared at him, yanking her arm away, “Why? There's too much to do, I have to dress and skin my buck.”

“Wren, I saw what you did.” His voice was a hushed whisper.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She turned to leave her friend and help the other women prepare the buck she had killed.

“Wren don't play stupid with me. People are going to start to wonder why all of your kills have seared arrow wounds.”

His dark eyes were concerned, and scared.

“Dirthrell, I can't help it. I can't stop it.”

“We had wondered why you stopped practicing the bow with us.”

“The lightning just comes on it's own! I don't want it, please don't tell anyone!”

Both his hands grabbed her upper arms, “Wren,” he whispered, ”you have _magic_ , you must tell the Keeper! She can help you!”

“She'll send me away! We already have a First and a Second! I won't leave!”

He grabbed her right hand, “Look! You burned yourself! You need to learn to control it or you'll get hurt!”

Wren pulled away, “I will learn! I can stop this, I can do it on my own!”

 

There was always a floodgate beneath her skin, waiting for her to wield it and let her power flow out. She hated opening that floodgate. Often it did it on its own, when she concentrated on something else and let her guard down. It had been a constant stress, to keep control of her power. But now she surrounded her pile of tinder with her hands and let the dam crack open.

A bright shock erupted between her hands and it was all she could do to control the current flowing through her. With all her strength, she shut it off, like holding her breath indefinitely.

Part of her longed to wield the current again, but she knew she could not. Not without killing herself. A pulsing ache started behind her eyes as she struggled to control the magic inside her.

When she gathered herself, she saw that her tinder had a smoldering coal. After piling kindling and damp logs, a small flame licked to life, slowly warming her from the autumn cold.

Tentatively, she used her teeth to pull off the gloves she wore. On the tips on the fingers, the leather had been burnt to a dark brown, and as the gloves fell off she saw her fingertips and palms red and lightly blistered. She flinched as she rummaged through her pack, every time something touched the burns her hands stung. At the bottom of her satchel she procured a small wooden box and when she opened it, the smell of mint and aloe stung her nose. Carefully, she smeared a slave onto her burns and relaxed when the numbing effects began to work. Wrapping tissue-light gauze around her hands she kicked more wood into the fire and curled up in her bed roll, shivering. She was running out of the salve, and the plant that made most of it did not even grow in Fereldan. If she could not learn to control her magic, she would burn her own hands off.

 

“It looks like this.” Wren's gloved hands went to her belt pouch as she pulled out a paper and handed it to the Avvar herbalist. “It doesn't grow here, but I wondered if you have traded for any from across the Waking Sea?”

The elder human studied Wren's crude drawing of a succulent plant called Aloe. She had copied it from a book of exotic herbalism the Keeper had.

“Hmm, this does look like something I've seen.” The merchant women handed the paper back to her elvhen customer and went to get something in her wagon. As Wren waited she nervously began scratching at a scab on her face, but snatched her hand away as she saw a male barbarian glare at her from around the wagon. His thick arms crossed over the animal furs on his chest and gold eyes narrowed as she looked. Wren had never gotten use to how large humans were. Even the hunched-back elderly woman was as tall as a male elf. And the Avvar were taller than most humans.

The herbalist hopped from the wagon with a small glass jar, “I believe this is what you want. The plant itself does not live well in this cold, but the pulp has the healing properties you will need from it.”

“May I try a small bit to see if it works?”

The old woman eyed her sheepishly, “If you let me try your venison strips you make so well.”

Wren beamed and fished for a thick parcel in her bag. For the last three years she had traded with this Avvar woman, and the human loved the venison jerky Wren prepared. It kept for a long time, and Dalish seasoning was more flavorful than anything the Avvar made.

The merchant chewed on a small morsel of jerky as Wren carefully opened the glass jar and took off a glove. She rubbed the smallest bit of the clear jelly onto her forefinger and smiled as she felt the new blister there immediately begin to cool and numb.

“I think we can definitely do business!”

“Aye.” The herbalist smiled and waved the Avvar man to her, “Come, come Branson, try the meat this elfling makes!”

The human man's initial imposing stance became far less scary as he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Grandmother, I am _not_ Branson.”

“Shush shush, just try this. I have too many grandchildren to keep up with.” And with that she pattered over to him with a large bit of jerky and began pestering him.

Wren wrapped the aloe pulp jar in layers of cloth and made sure the jerky on the woman's table was covered before she made her way back to her clan. There was a jump in her step and she turned back to look at the small Avvar trading post. The man was chewing with a beaming grin on his face and he nodded to her. Maybe she would not burn her hands to crisps after all.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


End file.
